Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Today's Crap

The recent article in the New Yorker about the break-in at a nuclear weapons site by a group of nuns and pacifists associated with the the Plowshares movement was a great read, and troubling on many levels:
  • The horrible outsourced security at the site.
  • Accusing the demonstrators of sabotage when it was clearly an act of civil disobedience - and more importantly an inadvertent case of whistle blowing (perhaps the real crime here).
  • The stiff Federal sentences the non-violent protestors received.

On a more personal note, I was blown away by this passage in the article about Tom Lewis:
The walls of the building were soon being decorated with spray paint and blood. It was Tom Lewis’s blood, drawn from his arm four years earlier, not long before he died. Lewis had been one of the Catonsville Nine, an artist and a Plowshares activist arrested numerous times. From his deathbed, Lewis had asked that his blood be used in one last direct action. The blood was frozen, saved, thawed, and poured into six baby bottles carried in backpacks to Y-12. Now it dripped down the white walls.
In the late 70's early 80's Tom was an art teacher at my high school.  He was also my "dorm parent" - essentially legally responsible for my behavior while living in the dorm he co-managed (loco parentis.)  I can't imagine it was easy for a man who went to prison for directly confronting government authority to be be placed in a position of authority over a group of over indulged adolescents.  We didn't make it easy on him, but he persevered through what even today I would consider a pretty horrible job (despite the free room and board).  As an art teacher and an activist Tom was inspirational to many.  I particularly remember some of the haunting pencil sketches he made while in prison, and how he connected his art to his strong personal (and spiritual) beliefs.

After being reminded of my brief association with Tom, I am struck by A) what a complete and total bad ass that man was - even up until his dying days, and B) how easy it is not to notice or care about the fascinating people among us when we're caught up in our own personal bullshit. 



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